


Here I Go

by SillyRabbitGames



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Body Worship, Character(s) of Color, Codependency, Comfort, Constance's A+ Parenting, Crying!Anti-Christ Style, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Feels, Female Character of Color, Fluff, Hugs, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Infatuation, Insecurity, Interracial Relationship, Kinda grey-dark SI, LGBTQ Themes, Magic, Magical Rage-outs, Masochistic Michael, Michael Just Wants Someone to Love Him, Michael Langdon remains soft, Michael Needs a Hug, Michael says fuck gender stereotypes and cries all he wants, Mild Gore, My First AO3 Post, My First Fanfic, My First Work in This Fandom, Overstimulation, Pansexual Character, Pansexual woman of color, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Pre-Relationship, Protectiveness, SI refuses to believe this isn't a dream, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Insert, Shit I think I need to read a bible for refs, This is all just one long stream of consciousness, Touch-Starved, Touch-starved Michael, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Violence, What does the world look like under Lucifer’s rule, Will this become explicit? Idk man Idk, Witches don't win, angst maybe?, dont @ me, meltdowns, oh god what am i DOING, soft michael, welp, woc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-09-12 20:50:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16878954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SillyRabbitGames/pseuds/SillyRabbitGames
Summary: Damn you Silver Queen and your Dreaming of Sunshine. So this is my first time writing after having been a lurker!reader for many years. And what do I do with my first time? I write a self-insert. The fandom? AHS Apocalypse. Like everyone else the Antichrist fearboner has taken over my life. So instead of OC’s, what would a self insert from our reality with knowledge of the TV show just thrown in Michael’s way do? Besides, ya know, jump him. Damn here I go.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ok this is just going to be a writing exercise. I couldn’t find any fics starring people of color or black witches (who aren’t just automatically voodoo ppl. Heavy SIGH) I also want to explore Michael’s demon form in depth which I also couldn’t find so I guess if you can’t find it. **Write it.** Honestly I have no idea where I’m going with this but I plan to just let it flow. It may suck. It may miraculously not. We’ll see. _The relationship is going to be a slow build you guys. I apologize to everyone who wants instant smut. I know the feeling. lol_ I’m also going to play fast and loose with the timeline and locations because jeez if not even Ryan Murphy can keep track then how can I? 
> 
>  
> 
> Trying for a Realistic Semi Dark self-insert. I'm going to try and keep what I would consider normal reactions to the wild fuckery that is AHS as realistic as possible. LoL.
> 
> (The only thing I am 100% on is that Michael is 9 years old at Outpost 3. Yeaaaa lets explore that discomfort too.)

Bright Light. Too bright.

I blink and groan in annoyance. I’m lying on the ground. _Huh_. Weird. I am absolutely positive I climbed into bed last night. I sat up. OK definitely outside, on the ground. In a forest? Did I mention on the ground. My mild annoyance is quickly shifting to fear. How did I get here? Did someone bring me here? I shift to stand up and realize I’m dressed. Skinny jeans, and a cheap red faux-leather jacket. Underneath, a faded angry bird t-shirt. These are _not_ my clothes. None of my jeans have holes in them, I always hated that style. I totally missed the angry bird fad so also a no on owning clothing referencing it. And this Emma Swan jacket? Omg _no_. The boots may be mine but I’m busy panicking over the fact someone grabbed me from my bed. Undressed me, RE-dressed me and ditched me in a forest. OH MY GOD. That’s psycho behavior. Maybe they left me out here, waiting for me to wake so they could hunt me down. I wailed mentally, _'Why do I watch so many horror movies!!!'_

Ok I thought, squinting while standing perfectly still. There's a perfectly rational explanation for this. Don't Panic.  
Perfectly rational explanation.  
Don't Panic.  
Perfectly rational explanation.  
Don't PANIC.  
Perfectly rational EXPLANATION.  
Fuck this I’m panicking. I’ve thought I’ve panicked before in my short life. Graduating college, finally moving out of the nest and job hunting? Hahah noooo, that was apparently mild anxiety. Me losing my shit, hunched over in a pathetic display while screaming is the kind of panic I never knew. Something darts towards my feet and I scream anew and kick it. Its a chipmunk. It’s now dead.  
Oddly enough the guilt stopped my meltdown. Then the petty over-takes me.

“Seriously? Running towards a large screaming unknown thing, WTF Mr. Chipmunk?” 

I sigh and the guilt quickly fades, with life skills like that Mr. Chipmunk wasn’t going to last long anyway. I turn and start running, ya know, just in case some crazed serial killer with a boner for ‘the hunt’ is really around but I’m starting to doubt that. Yet, I can’t think of anything else it could be. I stop that train of thought before it triggers another scream-fest and just run.

After a while of running I hit a slope that turns to a road and a short distance away, maybe 5 minutes, is a town. A very fancy, almost urban but still too-many-trees and bike-paths-town. I feel a weird case of deja vu while walking towards it. And yet it’s not familiar. The people are very tan, and all on scooters. Why are there so many farmers markets? The sun is now fully bright and its hot but the color of the leaves tell me its fall. I’m…concerned. Because its spring. But denial is gunna get me through this sooooo, ignore, ignore, ignore. Did I mention the people are tan? Everyone is sporting dyed hair of either wild colors or super blonde. That's it. Lots of shorts, lots of crystal shops. I squint. Crystal shops? What? Why are there so many hills in the distance. Wait-a-minute. Is that a palm tree?! The panic comes back with a vengeance and I stride towards a little mom & pops looking shop. Those places always have land lines and I’ll be able to call the cops. I couldn’t bear to ask someone to borrow a cell phone to call the police because weirdly enough I feel embarrassed. _Who_ gets kidnapped and ditched and-- everything I’m thinking halts as a I stare at a newsstand I was passing by. The date. The location.  
I’m in L.A. Los Fucking Angeles. Which ok, fuck this kidnapper for dragging my dumb-ass sleeping self across state lines. Alright. OK. But the date. Well.  
I choke off a scream, can’t have myself looking crazy can I? and wobbily continue to my destination. 

The store is blissfully cool. It doesn’t help.

I mumble at the first person in an apron I see, “Ah excuse me Sir...”

“Hiya there, welcome. Today’s special is tofurky sandwich with brie and we have a sale on chakra crystals.” 

I squint, and I’m taken out my fear to a state of incredulity. WTF is up with L. A and crystals? Honestly.  
“Um...” I think about asking for a phone and the number for the police but I don't want to sound insane because of what I just saw and I need to be sure. 

I need to be SURE, so instead I say, “Are your newspapers or newsletters free?”

Apron guy happily hands me a newspaper and greets another customer. I stare it. And stare.  
I slowly walk to apron guy and ask if there's a landline I could borrow. Everything feels numb and slow as he leads me towards the phone. I take it and call my mom. The number doesn’t exist. I call my roommate, and a dial tone answers me. I breathe deeply and call my dad, the line clicks and a southern woman, owner of some bakery shop answers. I hang up in a daze. I stand there, just breathing. I consider the police and yet…

After a while of this apron guy looks back at me and I smile shakily and make my way out the store.  
I wobble over to a bench and not so much as sit but fall into it. _‘They could all be it on it’_ my mind whispers. And yea, why not, a whole town full of people in cahoots with a serial killer to turn the victim’s world upside down. That’s, that’s...not possible! And yet, here I am. In California. In 20-fucking-15. Its a prank. Its 2018! Its gotta be a set-up. Some sinister cat and mouse game with a whole population of people in it. Sure why not! I sniffle and realize I’m crying. I’m dressed in clothes that aren’t mine and I have no phone. I have no money. I don’t have my credit card number memorized and my parents phone numbers are wrong. They’ve had their cell phone numbers for years! Even if I’m somehow in the past, a younger version of them would still at least answer but they didn't...they didn’t...they didn’t...they didn’t. I breathe deeply again and refocus. And if I call the cops and explain my situation I’m pretty damn sure they’d be locking me in a psych hold instead. I’ve got to get out of here. Someone is doing this to me, and they ditched me so so close to a town. Obviously they want me here. Why ‘they’ and not just ‘he’, well women can do fucked up shit too. Fucked up psychos have no gender.. I’ve just got to get away. I shoot up off the bench in a jog, brain full of static and just go. 

The sun is high in the sky now and I regret my second run. The jacket is off and I’m thirsty as fuck but I refuse to stop. Maybe by the next town I’ll actually come up with a plan, maybe I’ll figure this all out, maybe I’m the fucking Queen of England!. I sigh again. OK no more sassing myself. All I’m doing is tearing myself down. And really I try but my mind loops back in on and around itself. I try and fail at not thinking about the kidnapping, about someone manhandling my naked body. I horribly fail at not thinking about the date. Hard to do that when I'm clutching said newspaper with a death-grip.

I went to bed last night and woke up to a nightmare. Fucking great.


	2. Chapter 2

I end up on a neighborhood street and wander down the sidewalk. People nod pleasantly as they walk past and I nod back. It probably looks like I’m just outside enjoying the day. According to the newspaper its Friday. I’m guessing its maybe 2pm now?. The sight of preschoolers getting dropped off clued me in. Perfectly normal time for a young lady to be walking about leisurely. 

Best not to start screaming again.

I shuffle pass a house with an iron gate and pause. I swallow and flashback to my earlier deja vu.  
The house is abandoned and dilapidated. The lawn has seen better days and the large iron gate is rusted. The house itself is brick, italian, if I’m remembering my wiki correctly. There's a cute front facing tower and a pleasing archway leading inside. I would know this Rosenheim Mansion anywhere. The Murder house. 

I laugh.

I’m surprised people aren’t gawking outside taking pictures. Isn’t this a popular tourist spot? I never planned to visit one day but here I am. In fucking L.A also conveniently ignoring the date for my own sanity. Why the fuck not? So I saunter round where I’m sure no one’s watching, and with the power of thighs and calves honed from jumping rope, I shimmy up the gate and leap into the yard. The first thing I notice is the quiet, on the other side of the gate, birds were chirping, the sun was shinning bright and the wind was warm.

It’s silent now. Here on this side of the fence. I don’t hear anything except the crunch of my boots on dry leaves. The sun is actually dimmer? And the wind has significantly cooled. I’m amazed at the creepy atmosphere. Not a place I’d want to sleep, and with that new thought, I realize, I don't have anywhere to _sleep_. Sleeping on the park benches or at the bus stops might get me robbed, killed, or as a girl, worse. It will be night soon, and if it got this cool so quickly I’ll soon be freezing. And well... I look up at the house. Might as well crash for the night. I ignore the fact that on the other side of the fence it’s mid-afternoon and that over here it might as well be nearing sunset. 

I briefly consider climbing in through a window but they’re so high up from ground level! Probably to discourage the very thing I’m thinking about doing. I groan and think about all the movies I’ve seen about picking locks while staring at the doorknob. I grab it and its...unlocked? Well then.  
How convenient. I open in the door and walk in, ignoring the rush of alarm tingling down my spine. I don't have time to be picky or creeped out, I’m on the run from a killer, maybe and in the past, maybe. No time to be choosy. So I head in and whoa, its warm and looks lived in? OK my creeped out alarms are ramping up. _‘Don't be picky’_ , I hiss to myself. And this isn’t so bad. Really it isn’t. Not at all. I wince at how often I’m repeating myself and lurk about the house. I turn and I’m at the bottom of the stairwell, wondering if I should seek a bed upstairs upstairs since everything is _still_ fucking furnished or stay down by the fireplace which is now _lit?!_ My head jerks, ok no, I could’ve sworn it wasn’t…

“Who are you?”

I look up in shock. There at the top of stairs is a young man. He’s wearing a grey t-shirt and rubbing his eyes. No way. No way. NO WAY NO WAYNOWAYNOWAYNOWAYNOWAYNOWAYNOWAYNOWAY. It’s Michael Langdon. The motherfucking Anti-Christ.  
I faint.  
Highly embarrassing, yes I know.

I wake up on a couch and take a minute to think without emotions. To truly contemplate my position. Goodbye denial my sweet dear friend. I clung to you for as long as I could but now its time to deal in facts.  
Fact: I went to sleep in my own bed, perfectly healthy and perfectly safe.  
I woke in a forest area, by a town in L.A in different clothes.  
My parents phone numbers don't work.  
I’m in the past.  
I’m in the past, in a TV show.  
The last part, I struggle with. Mightily.  
Kidnapped? OK.  
Can’t reach family? OK.  
In the past?...oh, ok.  
In the past, in a fictional reality. No. Not ok. 

Did I die in my sleep? Oh god is this...the after-life? No. What a lame after-life that would be. Then maybe, a _self insert?!_ But self inserts die, and then they’re reborn. God I’m such a nerd and also pretty damn sure I wasn’t a baby again. Perhaps there was a monoxide leak and—no I just checked it three days ago. Maybe I’m in a coma. Does that sort of thing happen? _Suddenly_ a coma?! What’s more plausible? Whats _less plausible?!_ My mind whirls. Ok scratch the dead part, I can’t be dead. I am positively NOT reborn. I’m just here. Maybe here, maybe? Maybe I’m dreaming. Could this just be one long dream? I skimmed an article on lucid dreaming once. Is it possible? Is it feasible? I did take some vitamin B earlier. Back in reality. Back in awake!world. Which is definitely more realistic than me crossing over into a made-up world while I was sleeping.

Yes this make sense. I’m asleep. I’m in a dream.

Well phew, that's a load off my back. That means no serial killer to worry about either. Just demons, witches, and the end of the world. Oh joy. But its all good. I’m dreaming. None of this matters. None of this affects me. Soon I’ll wake. Yes, I’ll wake up soon. I laugh. And then I laugh some more. A tension that felt like it was squeezing my temples disappears and a pressure that was slowly, constantly increasing on my chest lifts. I laugh and I laugh. I fall off the couch, on my hands and knees and laugh so much I start coughing. This is a fact, this makes sense. I did just marathon AHS after all. Of course I’m dreaming. And soon I’ll wake up and this will be a funny story to tell friends and family. 

A hand suddenly comes into my field of vision and lands on my back, rubbing gently. I turn my head, and it feels so slow, like moving fast is a concept that no one’s heard of. I'ts Michael. Michael Langdon. He's kneeling with a glass of water in his other hand and looks _so. fucking. concerned._ I breathe in and close my eyes. I open them again and he’s still there.

 _‘Ok, we’ve been over this,’_ I tell myself. _‘It’s all a dream.’_ I begin to chant.

_A dream. A dream. It’s only a dream. None of this is real. None of it._


	3. Chapter 3

_A dream. A dream. It’s only a dream. None of this is real. None of it._  
I repeat to myself as Michael wraps an arm around me and settles me back on the couch.  
_A dream. A dream. It’s only a dream. None of this is real. None of it._  
I chant again as I sip the water.  
_A dream. A dream. It’s only a dream. None of this is real. None of it._  
It becomes a chorus as Michael leans forward, elbows on knees.

Even if I knew nothing about any of this I’d be a fool not to feel this aura from Michael. I’ve always seen aura’s as bullshit. People can be charismatic. They can have a presence, but an aura? A sense of powerful _otherness?_ Nah. Well goodbye to that thought process but then I remember, _A dream. A dream. It’s only a dream. None of this is real. None of it._

He feels like a beacon, he doesn’t feel like fluffy goodness but he feels like peace, a contentedness, a need that's been fulfilled. He emanates warmth, not the metaphor but the actual heat, boy is his own damned radiator. And he’s still not asking me questions. He’s just staring at me, avidly boring holes into my face with those blue blue eyes. I focus on the water and struggle to remember the timeline. Its hard, I’m starving, I think I’m in shock and-- _A dream. A dream. It’s only a dream. None of this is real. None of it._ The staring is so intense, unnerving, eating under my skin and digging away, stabbing through my flesh and attempting to get to the heart of me.

 _‘Michael is in the murder house’,_ I hiss in my head. That must mean Constance is already dead. I try to focus on that instead of the wild hysteria I feel at his stare. That totally doesn’t work so I switch gears and run through the information I knew as a last ditch effort at ignoring the gaze boring into my skull. _‘The Satanists find him here (Ms. Meade) but when? Idk. He eats the heart and accepts his path as the Anti-Christ which solidifies his power and nigh on immortality. Before that he can be killed, as seen with Mallory and her black range rover. Right now he can be killed.’_ I pause. Did I just have that thought? Why the fuck should I care. _‘It’s just a dream...it’s just a…’_

“Who are you?” 

Well then, I guess he got tired of waiting. And that stare is never-ending. I turn to face him and he looks eager, eyes bouncing about as if he’s consumed by every angle of my face. Not gunna lie, I’m a Michael!stan and in every fantasy that behavior would’ve earned a hell yes from me, but right now? All I can feel is mounting dread. I flinch when he reaches out to touch me and he retracts his hand before he makes contact. Honest to god he pouts at that and I’m alarmed that I feel guilty over it. The staring has moved on from my face to my skin now and wow, has he never seen a black person before? I flashback to Constance. She never actually let him out of the house did she? But he did watch TV right? They never showed that on the TV show but he did play video games, and...err? oh shit. I pause again, who did he ever talk to besides _her._ The Nanny right? Nannies? Welp. And he killed her. Them? The Priest? Dead too. Ben Harmon? Also dead...and all adults, and all of the caucasian persuasion. Well I’m an adult too, but I guess they could be called Adult-Adults, unlike my fresh-out-the-nest self, especially in my current outfit, and with no make-up, I look young. I’ve always looked young, like a high schooler and Michael has never talked to a young person, maybe never even seen one, much less a person of color. The staring makes sense now. I hate that it makes sense. 

I put my game face on and with as much confidence as I can muster I chirp out, “Wanna play a game?” Michael positively glows in response and bounces off the couch. “Yeah! I’ve got games in my room!”

Really? Seriously? Michael gallops out the living room and up the stairs. I follow incredulously at a more sedate pace. Is it really that easy to deflect a topic? Did he allow it, and decide to play at this or is he seriously distracted by my lame deflection. I panic at his possible mind games before groaning.

I facepalm in realization. 

I forgot. He’s like, four now? He’s definitely 9 when we see him as Interview with a Vampire meets Dorian Gray-Langdon at the Outpost. _And god that hair._ Coughing at the wonderful mental hair-imagery that brings up I redirect my focus on heading to wherever he sprinted off to. I hear shuffling from one of the rooms and turn there. I gape. It’s a fucking amazing setup. Every kind of gaming consoles and games are scattered around the large screen TV. He smiles widely at me and gestures to a floor pillow beside him. I shrug. Why not. Might as well have fun in my own dream. It IS a dream after all, _A dream. A dream. It’s only a dream. None of this is real. None of it._ I settle on the ground and pick up a controller, the game is Tekken, which I fucking love. Well well maybe this dream won’t be so bad, I grin back at Michael, infected by his joy. Baby boy has no clue what he walked into, time to school him. And so I do, winning pretty much most of the time which is a fucking delight. The pout he gives me each time makes it even better. It’s hours later before my stomach grumbles. Oh yeah, I’m starving I belatedly remember. The time on the TV displays 8pm and I know I came here at mid-afternoon. Can I ignore this, does hunger have any meaning in a dream anyway? I start to speak but Michael beats me to it.

“I’m sure there’s food in the kitchen, c’mon.” And well, what else is there to do but go.

We head in the kitchen and there’s a full spread on the table. I gape, which is starting to become a running theme. Who cooked this? I glance around. Certainly not Michael. Did he conjure up the food? Is he at that level in this point and time? Was it Moria then? Speaking of Moria. I’ve seen _no_ ghosts. Nada. Not one. Not even Ben Harmon and I’m sure he hasn’t been tear-jerking it for _that long_ in front of a window. Hell not even crazy Hayden is around. I shrug internally again but in relief and pull up a stool. Michael pulls up a stool as well, obscenely, _obscenely_ close to me. Personal space dude! Does it not exist for him? And then I remember his sensual torture of everyone at Outpost 3 and nope, Michael has no concept of the term ‘personal bubble’. 

The meal is roast chicken in all its displayed glory with small plates of various additions beautifully surrounding it. It’s delicious edible art, and my stomach chooses that moment to vehemently agree. As I eat I wonder at my subconscious. Michael is very touchy, whatever hesitation he felt at touching me on the couch quickly evaporated once I willingly played video games with him. When I was kicking his ass at tekken he took every opportunity to graze my arm or lean his shoulder against mine. But is that how I remember him or is that how I want him to be? I make a mental note to hug a friend as soon as I wake up. Apparently I need some skin-ship. I also note its a bit sad that I don't remember Constance hugging him on the show and obviously he can’t touch the ghosts, so before Miriam Meade showed up he must’ve been starved for contact. Is that why my presence is just so accepted? Poor baby just wants some company. Hmm he also did just accept the Satanists casually being here too didn’t he? Looool all the Anti-Christ needs is a hug! I cringe at my own humor and really, where _is_ Ben Harmon?

Michael presses more into my side as we eat and I start to feel a bit awkward and think fuck it. It’s my dream. Why am I so hung up? No awkwardness is going to stop me from eating! I see some pasta and grab a scoop of it, smirking, I flick Michael’s chin playfully before scooping some pasta on his plate as well. Hey I can share. He looks at me in surprise before beaming. Literally beaming. Oh jeez that smile is adorable. Gosh. But, my mind whispers, _‘the devil created perfection, to appeal to us lowly mortals. You want to love Michael. Protect him.’_ I groan to myself, just a dream I repeat and resolve not to think about it. 

 

As I’m pathetically trying to brush my teeth with my finger and toothpaste in the bathroom, Michael appears at the door with a packaged toothbrush. Well it's just a dream and he’s also a supernatural being. Who am I to get worked up over where he got it. I hug him quickly without thinking, and get down to business. Oh god a toothbrush! I’m so glad and proceed to properly clean my teeth. I have a thing about teeth ok? When I’m done my bathroom ritual I mosey about. In every horror movie it's always when the character is about to settle in for the night that the spooky assholes pop up. Like the trolls they are. And so I meander and wait. No ghosts. Not one. I frown. OK dream. What gives? I would actually like to meet Moria and sass at Violet. Not at Tate. I don't need none of that school-shooter energy kthx. I pass by a bigger bedroom then turn back around. Michael is hard at work creating a fort. An actual fort. He looks up and gives me Adorable Smile #2. 

“We can have a sleepover!” He exclaims, “I’ve always wanted to do that” he finishes with a breathless air. And I shrug. Why not. I can ghost lurk another time. And so Michael and I have a sleepover in a fort on the king sized bed. There’s stuffed animals and GI Joe men and I’m not ashamed to say we played with every single one and I perfected my voice acting skills. Maybe this is what I need. Finishing college and actually searching for a job and living on my own and doing the Adult thing™ is stressful. I don’t actually want to be a kid again, but a silly break is nice. And so I guess this what this dream is about, I’mma be bff’s with Michael, running around the Murder House and just generally being a nuisance. 

That actually sounds great.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse me for all the crazy notifications you're getting pinged about. I constantly edit since I'm always finding something I missed. :(

I sleep like a baby and when I open my eyes it’s to bright blue.  
It’s a bit shameful how long it takes me to realize I’m staring into Michael’s eyes. His too close eyes. Wtf dude! I squint and valiantly keep my internal shrieks to myself.

“How long have you been awake?” I mumble instead while he looks at the clock. 

“Since the sun rose.”

I turn to look at the clock and acutely experience a moment of disbelief. Its 11 am. Is this endearing or is this creepy? Creepy I firmly decide. I even nod for emphasis to myself. Yes, creepy. 

“You could’ve woken me.”

“But you were sleeping!”

We both pause and I take him in. The t-shirt is gone. I don't remember that. The hair is wildly tousled and he’s smiling shyly at me. Michael is so earnest and almost overbearingly considerate. If someone told me this dude would kill 7 billion people I would’ve never believed it. Now how do you tell the Antichrist that staring close enough to examine someone’s pores is a no-go? I give up after seriously considering it. I’ll be awake soon. Why fuss. I determinedly don’t think about the fact I just woke up. I’ll be awake soon. _A dream. A dream. It’s only a dream. None of this is real. None of it._

“I’m hungry. Let’s head downstairs.”

Michael follows eagerly and docilely. Like a sweet kitten, not yet a predator. The kitchen is even better looking in the daylight. There’s no spread on the table this time but opening the fridge reveals nothing but goodies. Who the fuck stocked this? I turn to Michael and ask who grocery shops. That was apparently not the question to ask. Michael tears up and oh yes how could I forget this. Michael basically shouts a big fuck you to toxic masculinity and cries as much as he wants. The Devil is about excess in all things. Why wouldn’t his son be the same? Baby boy turns tears into an art form. I scoot warily close to him and do my best attempt at being comforting. 

“My grandma” he sniffs, “but she left me. I’m a monster.”

Well damn, how to respond to that. The Antichrist is a monster. In fact, he’s called The Beast™ isn’t he? And Michael knows everything natural to him was unnatural to Constance. Speaking of Constance Langdon, her behavior was confusing. I know damn well at the end of Murder house she was aware that Michael was the Antichrist, was her forgetting another one of Murphy’s plot holes or did she really think she could turn Satan’s son into an upstanding citizen. Her love was based on conditions. If she was going to go full out she (horrible abusive mother and killer that she was) should’ve of just accepted and loved Michael totally. In fact that fit her character more but alas. And I’m getting lost in my ramblings again. Focus!

“Your grandmother really called you that?”

“Yes, and she had kicked me out, and even my Mom agreed. And Dad stopped playing catch with me and won’t let me see him anymore. And my other Dad never wanted to see me at all.”

I pause at that. Where did Constances’ body go? And jeez thank goodness I actually know what’s going on or that whole sentence would offer up nothing but confusion. And if Ben stopped caring that means the Vivien scene already happened. That also means Michael killed the lovely lesbian couple and burned their souls. I peer at Michael. I feel astounded even when I know I shouldn’t. His lips tremble and he blinks tears while I remember him in the rubber suit going full balls to the wall in evil. How could such a dichotomy exist? Is it just evil flare-ups that settle when he eats the heart. Or is it a struggle, him not knowing why he does what he does as I remember him proclaiming in the show. And didn’t Ms. Mead and her crew roll up right after his falling out with Ben? Or was that another Timey-Whimey of Ryan Murphy. It had seemed instantaneous but maybe it was months later? Christ. Months of being in the Murder House ignored by ghosts. No wonder he just let the creepy strangers in black cloaks in with a smile. But still, _who the fuck is stocking the fridge?_ I resolve to just let it go. Can’t know everything I guess. I rub his back in the same soothing circles he gifted to me when I was being hysterical on the couch. It’s hard to really feel sad about the dead people when I know they’re not real. _‘None of this is real’_ my mind whispers. I bite my lip and slowly consider my words, I don't want to turn this dream into a nightmare and an angry Michael is _not_ on my to do list.

“Your Grandmother...um… it sounds like her love was conditional. I bet you weren’t the only one she treated like that. It seemed like if you didn’t reach an ideal she had of you then you had no value to her. And that’s not love Michael. Real love is unconditional. If someone loves you, even when you disappoint them. Even if they end up hating you, they’ll still love you. Because that’s how strong love is.”

Wow, that came out way lamer than I thought it would. Maybe I should try to explain love _can_ turn to hate, even in families. But that would require more explanation and more possibilities of me fucking up. Best to keep it simple. I try not to grimace since I have the full force of the Michael stare trained on my face. He’s not even blinking and I honestly don’t want to see if my mind can conjure up what it feels like to burn alive. 

“Do you love me?”

“Ah, I just met you yesterday. But um, we get along well. Like buddies.”

“So we’re friends?”

“...Yes.”

Michael springs on me so suddenly it could almost be called an attack. He whips into my chest and buries his face in my neck while crying loudly. I feel a bit bad for hoping he doesn’t get snot all over me and pat his back awkwardly. After that speech I honestly expected Jessica La—erm I mean Constance to show up and scowl at me elegantly from the doorway. But no Constance. No Ben. Not one ghost. I know he didn’t burn all their souls. Madison and Behold had showed up to get answers and pretty much met them all. So either they’re avoiding him in hate...or...and I could slap myself; fear. Michael can _destroy souls_. I belatedly remember food showing up at dinner and the fridge being stocked. Why the fuck did I not connect the dots? They’re terrified and placating him. Avoid him but leave food out. Omg. The ghosts are actually running scared. Are they watching right now and just invisible? Or are they fully stealth and as far away from Michael as they could possibly be? Viven is kind and Tate is burning with righteous hate. Their character dictates one of them, even Ben would’ve shown up to warn me away from the deceptive lamb. They couldn’t stand by and watch, me ergo innocent girl thinking Michael was just some kind guy. The fact that they haven’t, not even leaving menacing writing in a fogged up mirror sorta makes it clear that the ghosts don’t even want to lay eyes on ‘ole Mikey. Hence they don’t know what’s happening. And damn do I feel dumb for not even thinking of that before.

 

~

 

I’m going through Violets closet looking for clothes while Michael takes a shower. A part of me still expects one of them to pop up and another wonders how deep the ghost dimension goes. This is their hellmouth house, I wouldn’t think they could disconnect so heavily as to not know what goes on. Or maybe they do and I’m wrong about character development and they’re just like, fuck her. I don’t know anymore. I hate not knowing things. I sigh and pick out some leggings and loose shirts. Obviously I’m curvier than Violet. In every way really. But as long as I don’t pick out her tight clothing I can fit. Next stop is Vivien’s closet. I suppose Ben’s too. Gender specified clothing never mattered to me, especially when you can get mens clothes at a better price. Plus Violets bras definitely won’t fit and there’s no way I’m bouncing my way through this dream if you get my drift. So to the master bedroom I go. And right into baby boy who’s drying his hair. Why isn’t he in his room? I play it cool and go to the closet like I’m not even perplexed by his presence. Digging through Viven’s closet is a treasure cove of maternity bras and maxi dresses. Ohh cardigans. Score! But before I can fully settle into the excitement of cardigan discovery the air goes still and I know that means Mikey is engaged in another round of fevered staring. Is now the time he asks again who the fuck I am? Or why I’m here? Why I’m _still_ here?

“Are you leaving?”

Well. That’s a question I actually didn’t expect. I turn around...and he’s practically three inches from my face!!! How did he get here?! Without a sound! And I didn’t feel him. In fact I’m just now starting to feel the extreme warmth Michael always exudes. Which means he wasn’t behind my oblivious ass this whole time. That means he’s fast or he teleported. Either way, now I know fighting him and trying to out-move him would end so so badly for me. 

“Do you want me to leave?”

I flashback to Outpost!Michael and his troll ways of never answering a question and turning questions back on the people who ask them. Ok I won’t lie, I’m feeling a bit smug over pulling a Michael on Michael. He bites his lip and this close I can see the flush of blood welling beneath the skin, turning it even pinker. The stare intensifies, I swear to _god_. It does! 

“No. Stay.”

I shrug. When I wake up the dream dissipates. It won’t be like I’m leaving him behind, so it’s not a lie saying I’ll stay. So I do. 

“Then I’ll stay.”

“With me.” Michael amends, “Don’t leave me. You’ll stay with me right?”

I pause. I pity him for his quick attachment but Paranoid!me flares up immediately. That sounds like a word-trap, something binding, _‘a contract!’_ my mind shrieks, _‘Deals with demons!’_ It frantically continues. It’s just a dream I whisper back, and besides, two can play this word game. 

“I won’t leave you on purpose baby boy.” After all, I don’t control waking up and I’m sticking around to see how this all goes and... holy hell, did baby boy just slip out my mouth? I freeze in mortification. I feel the blush spread over my cheeks and down my neck. Again I rail at the fact that being a lighter color allows everyone to see when I’m flushing. Michael stares at my cheeks in surprise, and anger at myself makes me want to snark that yeah, black people can fucking blush too. But I heroically hold my tongue. No need to lash out at the teleporting Antichrist. I turn around and finger the cardigans, maybe if I stare at them long enough Michael will get bored and forget this entire debacle.

Ha! If only.


	5. Chapter 5

“What’s your name?” he asks abruptly.

My mind helpfully chooses that moment to take a megaphone and howl, _‘NEVER TELL A DEMON YOUR NAME!’_ Well I whisper to myself (and yea I’m concerned at how much I’m talking to myself too) it's a dream. And it’s never give fairies your full name. At least I think so. 

“Gemdolyn. But seriously call me Gem. What’s yours?” If Michael notices I don’t give a last name he doesn’t bring it up.

“Michael Langdon. I’m so happy we’re friends Gem.”

He holds my hand and strokes it while looking so earnestly happy that I nearly want to add my last name. But I know better. Even in a dream. Giving him my name makes him almost glow and he leans closer to me than he’s ever been before. My mind feels like it's running away from me with its own monologue, _'The Devil made him'_ it sings. A demon doesn’t rule hell, a Seraph does. The strongest of all angels. Morningstar, once God’s greatest pride, the most beautiful and second only to god. _(Watching Supernatural has really helped me out with the bible knowledge here)_ The Seraphs belong to the highest order of the celestial hierarchy, associated with light, ardor, and purity. And the children the fallen angels had with mortals, were called Nephilim. In that case, even though the Antichrist’s birth is a perversion of the actual Christ, he’s still a Nephilim. Beautiful and angelic, and being this close to his face does nothing to erase it. No blemishes or stray hairs. Proximity heightens the symmetry of his face. I remember reading an article back in awake!world that said the only person who had ever come close to the Golden Ratio proportions was Amber Heard. Honest to god, it called her the most 'Scientifically Beautiful' Woman In The World. Jeez. Those scientists would have a field day measuring Michael's face. Even if he wasn’t your type no one could deny that he wasn’t beautiful. Michael’s perfection though is a whole fucking other level. Everything is highlighted the closer he is, making you ignore the undertone of unease. Even _with_ your lizard brain crying out, that he's _too_ perfect. Too _other_. The shallow need for beauty quiets it. I’m simply amazed my subconscious conjured this. I never knew I could imagine such beauty. I close my eyes and smile, cardigan in a death grip, unable to continue looking at Michael when I’m this close. It almost hurts.

 

~

 

I pad through the house. Freshly showered and burning with curiosity to see what else my brain can turn up. I flip through the newspaper that had given me multiple meltdowns while Michael bounces behind me. I’m sensing him following me everywhere will become a theme and though it's still unnerving to be the subject of his entire focus it's starting to take on an edge of thrill. Why fuss I repeat to myself. _Enjoy the dream_. Obviously I’ve been wanting skinship and companionship. So I solved the problem and dreamed it up. Michael chooses that moment to slide up beside me and twine his fingers through mine, all the while giving me Adorable smile #5. I grin back and proceed to poke through every nook and cranny of the house. Everything is more or less what I remember from the show. Some things are a pleasant surprise. Some aren’t, like the awful abstract painting in the attic. I don’t remember it from the show and I guess my brain is just filling in the gaps. The mind is so amazing yo. As I’m contemplating the ramifications of asking Mikey to burn the painting he moves abruptly in front of me. 

“Hmm?”

“Earlier, you called m-me...” He stutters and pauses. Oh god, don't bring it up. Don't bring it--, “Will you always call me that?” 

“Ah I’m sorry I offended y--”

“No!...Can you, call me that. More. Please?”

Michael tacked on that please like he just remembered it and wow, I suppose it makes sense. Michael gets easily attached and loves praise, and apparently, pet-names? Well ok then. Just a dream after all.

“I didn’t mean to say it aloud but since you don't mind. I will.”

“Does that mean you’ve been previously saying it in your mind then?” 

I almost flinch, never forget I hiss to myself. Michael takes in _everything_ , every moment, every word and all their possible meanings. He’s a perfect supernatural baby genius. He probably even saw me tense up for my aborted flinch. _‘The offspring of Satan sees all’_ my mind oh so helpfully quips. I try to nonchalantly shrug but the damnable blush blooms on my face. Michael steps closer and fixedly ogles me. This time I don’t tense. He finally smiles, but its not the Adorable smile numbers I’m used to. Or even a shy grin, its looks like a-- ugh! The bastard is smirking at me! I huffed and turn on my heel. He ramps up his smugness by skipping. _Skipping!_ Behind me. I focus at glaring at the walls and trying not to pout. It's beneath me after all, my dignity must be preserved. Once I’ve memorized everything, I entertain Michael with a game of hide and seek. Of course he loves it and of fucking course he utterly owns me in it. I should’ve seen that coming.

 

~

 

I spend my days like this, or I should say dream days. Wake up, food, play, food, play, food, dream!sleep. Honestly I’m having a blast. We play every game from tag to video games to board games. Michael is a savage at monopoly. But after the incident with Uno we both agreed to leave that game alone. Michael's rage at that game was alarming to me (for obvious reasons), but what was equally shocking was my own anger. I now get the memes about that game tearing families apart, honestly the power that game wields is too strong. Other than that nights go the same way as days, and by same I mean Michael not leaving my side. He sees no point in alone time. And has literally just moved into the master bedroom with me. If this was real life I’d be a tad bit worried about co-dependency, and oh yes, the Antichrist thing. I'm exhausted by how many chants I've had to sing to myself to soothe my paranoia. Who gets paranoid in a dream? Me apparently. Plus I can never openly worry and always I'm repressing the feeling of anxiety, I'll never forget my meltdowns. A loss of mental reassurance that still frightens me. I won't let myself do that again. Never again. And so every worry and doubt is repressed, I'm just dreaming after all, and every mild red flag from Michael? Well, why should I focus on that? If I bring attention to it the dream might change, the slightest push can turn this into nightmare, _but isn't it already?_ and so I smile and graciously accept Michael's persisting presence, in which no second is endured alone. I’ve never spent every second with someone. Sure when I was a baby. But no one remembers that. And then pre-school, you made friends and spent time constantly with them but you’d go home, and parents work and as you get older, you’re in after school clubs, and then you work part time jobs, and then college is basically bouncing all over campus. And then Adulting is basically a series of scheduling around work. Luckily I don't have to work in my dream. Neither does Michael. Our only time apart is the bathroom. And fuck, I’m sure if I’d allow it Michael would unreservedly be in there with me while I was on the toilet. I don’t know how much I can stress that I spend. every. moment. with Michael. He’s the first thing I see when I wake and the last thing I see before I dream!sleep. You’d think, you’d think, that would act as an immunity against his beauty. But he’s like delicious poison. The more I’m around him, the worse it actually gets. WTF brain? I’ve also become a master at not thinking about how I’m not waking up to the real world. The coma theory is becoming distressingly more plausible and-- no, lets not think about that. And so goes my nights. I go to sleep next to a blazing heater and wake up to him scrutinizing me. Always with the staring. I’ve learned to ignore it. Mostly.

 

~

 

It’s been some months now, honestly I lost track and every-time I attempt to mark a calendar I find, it quickly disappears. Some days I suspect the ghosts, some days I think my coma brain is shutting down. Yes. I’ve finally accepted the coma theory as real. How did it happen? Who knows. But I’m not waking up and I promised myself many many times to kick the denial bucket. So I spend my days finding things to do, sure it's still fun but there's a feeling to the background of my thoughts I don't let myself examine, and to eat up time I’ve been over and in and out of all aspects of the Murder House. I’ve even had an eye out for the satanists but nada. I’m starting to get antsy and Michael, as in tune as he is with me in every aspect gets twitchy in response. At least I think that’s it, he could just be paranoid that I’m gearing up to leave, apparently he’s never stopped thinking that one day I’ll disappear In the same fashion that I’d just suddenly appeared. Idk but its time to go to a fucking park or something. Fresh air and all that jazz.

“Baby boy.” Michael’s eyes blaze as he fixes them in my direction. “Lets head out.”

“Outside?”

“Oh yes.” I practically purr. “I’m taking you outside sweet thing.”

This could go, very very badly. But it’s my coma!dream and I’ve right-now at-this-exact-moment decided I don’t give a fuck. Really, the not giving a fuck is doing great things for my nerves. I don't recall if Constance let him outside and the only time I did see him outside was at the butcher shop. But I'm sure Ms. Mead would’ve taken him out. All those first time experiences probably made him love her more. And I thought about that, about what would happen if I ended up co-opting those first times instead, the consequences and how much attachment I could handle. If my dream would become a nightmare and make me experience murderous obsession, the Antichrist edition. So I waited, and _waited_. But no satan-cult crew. No Ms. Mead. No people even just fucking chanting on a lawn. I’m starting to believe logic-wise and not Ryan Murphy-wise, that it was a _long_ time before they showed up. Or maybe it's just my mind dragging this along. Either way the thought of chanting buffoons on our lawn also reminded me that I’d have to teach Michael about stranger danger. Oh joy. 

We step outside and squint at the sun like wannabe Vampires. I recalled how much brighter it would be on the opposite side of the fence and sighed. Well at least Michael somehow had money, probably found Ben's wallet which I will happily use to fund us getting some shades, and I’m definitely dragging him to the pastry shops. Mhmm and pizza. God I’m moaning just thinking about it.

“Gem are you moaning?”

I jerk back into coma!reality and drag him off the porch. Of course it’s not really dragging when the other person happily goes along with you. He had asked sweetly enough but lately he’s been getting this side smirk which means he’s teasing me and I only have myself to blame because I undoubtedly know he’s learning it from me. Ugh! We get to the fence and the lock clicks, letting the gate swing open and oddly Michael’s hand tenses in mine. Oh. _Oh_. Should I acknowledge this? Mikey has never actually used his power in front of me. Sure things would appear, the toothbrush for example. But I’ve never seen him _do_ anything. Annnnnnd it’s too late, I have to acknowledge it now because I’ve been standing here as tense as Michael as I ramble in my head. Well the best way is the simplest way isn't it? I turn to face him and he’s staring at the ground. Normal people usually wish the ground would open up and swallow them, in Michael’s case I probably shouldn’t let him stare at the dirt too long or that exact scenario may actually happen. He’s my height precisely, and I grumble internally over the fact that soon he’ll be way taller than my 5’6. Rambling again! Moving to action, I try to tilt his chin but the stubborn bastard is unbudgeable. I end up sighing. Which damn I’ve been doing a lot of that and before I can gripe anymore about it I throw caution to the wind and just hug him. Sure we've hugged before, but outside the house in full view of others leaves me feeling weird about it. It’s fifteen long uncomfortable seconds (for me at least, I’m sure he’s loving it) before Michael hugs back. And it’s a _tight_ hug. Ugh! My ribs! The hug isn’t ending anytime soon but I endure it and promise myself many slices of pizza for this. 

 

~

 

The best part of this whole excursion is the ridiculous quacking ducks. It’s late afternoon and Michael and I had hit every shop. Yes, even the crystal ones before finally ending up at fancy deli and having the best pizza of my life. _My life!_ Now we’re at a pond in the park feeding leftover pizza crusts to ducks. Well, to amend that, I’m sitting on the bench taking in the breeze. Michael is the one surrounded by a frenzied army of shrill ducks. He’s squatting down, lit up by the dying light of the day, and showing teeth in a way that doesn’t quite look like a smile as he decides which duck to feed and which duck to deny. Oh _boy_ , those latent sadistic devil tendencies are showing. 

I’m mildly uneasy that I feel more amused about that than concerned. Of course the duck frenzy could be what’s adding to my amusement. Hmmm. I smile lazily to myself, simply basking in the sun and sinking into the park bench. As my head rolls back an American Goldfinch catches my eyes. The golden yellow mesmerizes as I watch it. Man I really need to get out and enjoy nature more in the awake!world. If I ever wake up...the thought makes me frown, the feeling I've been pushing down bubbles up and in a split second Michael is towering over me. I jump.

 _‘Jesus dude!’_

He’s frowning too and I want to groan. Considering the fact he has powers it shouldn’t ever be a surprise to me if it’s confirmed that he somehow did link himself to my feelings. He didn’t at first have the ability, or perhaps didn’t feel comfortable showing me that he knew my emotions, but if he didn’t, well he definitely knows now, and _always_ when my emotions take a turn. I feel a brief ping of nostalgia over the days that he was shy in asking why I’d be sad but now his questionings on my emotional states have become aggressive. He _has_ to know. He _has_ to make it better. No matter how many times I explain that some things can’t be made better and people can’t be happy all the time it won’t get through that thick perfect skull. While I’m pondering his magical hacking into my emotions, Michael’s head turns, eerily slow, to glare at the American Goldfinch. A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. Oh god he’s going to slaughter that poor bird now and I should feel sad about that possible outcome. But it’s such a utterly ridiculous conclusion that I can’t help but find the whole thing humorous. Feeling insanely fond I lean up to wrap an arm around his waist and pull him down on the bench. In response his entire body loses its tension and I smile sleepily as I relax against his side. Michael beckons with his other arm. _Beckons_ , and the ducks turn en masse and waddle on over. I snort. He’s so fucking dramatic. The ducks are equally dramatic and I swear they’re putting on a show to get some pizza crust. My lashes flutter as I try to stay awake but alas, combined with the shining sun and soft wind, the food coma drags me down and Mikey’s too warm body isn’t helping in the fight to not nap. 

I lose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _loses_ huh? *Cackles* foreshadowing amirite?
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> And a Merry 'survive the holidays' Day! to you all :)


	6. Chapter 6

I totally called it. 

It’s a few days later and I’m reclined on the couch, lazily contemplating the ceiling when Michael swiftly moves to kneel below me. Supplicant on his knees, hands outstretched and cupped around a very still yellow bird. The goldfinch. How he even got it when he never leaves my side is a mystery. He offers it up to me like my cat would once upon a time, he looks pleased but unlike my cat also frightened. I’m just moments away from teasing him and calling him my Devil Kitty, until I suddenly remember Constance and her reactions to his... _gifts_. Ah. I see now. It would probably be best not to bury it in a garden either. I smile and cradle it in my hands, _ew germs_ , I’ll definitely have to wash them after this. I can’t exactly hug him so I bend over and lean my cheek against his and compliment him and his hunting skills. It’s the same exact way I would praise my cat and Michael happily rumbles at me in response. (He’s totally a cat. No one can tell me otherwise). Seriously, Baby boy eats up compliments like I eat pizza. Mhmm pizza. Focus Gem! 

He follows behind me. Always close and never far, as I pad towards the kitchen. I place it on the counter that I’ll make sure to bleach later and start plucking the best feathers as Michael eyeballs every move I make. They’re beautiful, maybe I’ll make a necklace from it I muse. While I pluck I make sure to talk about bacteria and stress that parasites live in wildlife in the same tone I used for the Stranger Danger speech. Michael Ah-ha’s at each sentence like it’s a revelation. I want to hook him up on youtube featuring biology classes but I feel like that’s a rabbit hole I shouldn’t touch. I put that away in the think about it later box and clean the feathers with antibacterial soap and leave it in Hydrogen Peroxide. 

“Not bleach?” he questions.

“It will make the feathers brittle and dull the color. I don’t want to ruin your gift.” Michael legit preens.

Then I take him outside and give another speech (omg I’ve become my mom) on the circle of life and giving back to nature while leaving the bird near the roots of a tree. Not even five seconds later a raccoon snatches it up. Michael Ah-ha’s at this too. He also Ah-ha’d at the stranger danger speech. By the time I’m done he’s going to be a master at the ah-ahs, I fucking swear. We head back inside and I run upstairs to snatch a ring and linked chain from Vivien’s jewelry collection. I wasn’t interested in them before because obviously it wasn’t my style. But I find what I’m looking for in silver along with white thread and a needle and head back downstairs to get to work. I spend a good few hours lying in front of the fireplace artistically sewing the feathers on to the ring while Michael avidly watches from over my shoulder. When I’m done I loop the chain through the ring, about to put it on when Michael snatches it from my hand. _Fast_. And places it around my neck for me instead while I’m still shocked into motionlessness. I ask why but he ignores the question. That’s new. Him ignoring a question I’ve asked, is _very new_. Before I can even start to worry over it he derails my thought process by dramatically sprawling over my back. That’s new too.

Fucking cat.

 

~

 

It happens while we’re lazing about, lounging in front of the play-station. 

The weather is getting colder but inside the house it’s slowly warming up. I recall on the TV show it depicted how Murder House was like a sauna because Michael was there. And that it just got progressively hotter, imitating hell. I wonder if this place heating up is happening when it would in relation to Murphy’s quickie speed-forward or if things are actually delayed. There are no crows either, could Michael’s happiness actually slow down the antichrist signals he’s supposed to give off and-- _why am I thinking about this, its all a dream_...I slap my hand down in frustration and strike Michael across one perfect cheekbone. I recoil, he wasn’t this close to me before! But of course this is my fault, Michael is never far and even when he is, he’s always slowly inching ever closer. I practically leap on him in a panic and apologize profusely while checking to see if I’d accidentally inflicted any damage to his eye. Oh god how will Michael deal with physical pain? He’s gunna fucking roast me! 

He opens his mouth and I wait, tense, and then he sighs. _What?_ Was that a relieved sigh? His pale skin already begins to redden and I stroke his hair and neck, my hands fluttering in constant movement to administer comfort. Would it be a better idea to leave, wait no, that would be the worst idea in the world. The best thing to do is stay. And stay close, don’t let him think its-- _‘rejection! He hates rejection!_ ’ my brain so helpfully screams. Michael finally opens his eyes and just stares at me, the eyes dilating as he takes me in and...oh crap is his face redder?. Right about now, being a fucking mind reader would be pretty damn helpful. Does he understand I just made a mistake, is he just pissed and trying to restrain himself? My god man, speak! I decide a hug would go well in my favor and sit up while practically hauling him halfway in my lap. Michael lets me manhandle him and simply wraps his long arms tightly around my waist while lethargically nuzzling into my neck.

What the fuck. I am confusion.

We’ve been close before, anytime Michael touches me I always make sure to reciprocate, then there are the casual bumps of two people too close in each other’s personal space. And of course the one-time ‘you’re a monster and it’s ok!’ cuddle after Michael disappeared for a whole day. But it’s never been this intimate before. Not even when the hugs lingered did it feel like this. Fuck. I can feel the difference, and I’m hoping the difference isn’t what I’m thinking it is, but knowledge is power and all that jazz and I have to know what’s going on in that Antichrist brain. I tilt my head downwards jostling his face to mine, acting as if my only intent was to lean my cheek on his forehead. And man, fuck knowledge, it is so not power. Ignorance is bliss. Why am I whining you ask? Because I’m regretting this strange coma fever dream even more intensely than I have previously. 

Seeing Michael’s face revealed that it was completely flushed, he seems almost worryingly dazed and his pupils are utterly blown. I know the signs, he’s turned on and omg when did Michael become a masochist?! I turn my back and bam! Those latent sadistic tendencies I was seeing just flipped to full on masochism? And when did he hit mental puberty?! How did I miss all of this, and what does this say about me? Am _I_ into this?. Because shit, Michael deciding I’m a prime candidate to lust over were the very type of things I was keeping an eye out for. I’m not an idiot (hopefully) and I’m not in denial. I’m averagely pretty and the only person around him 24/7 that’s he’s formed a mildly severe attachment to is me, _‘mild my ass, you’re so full of shit_.’ I shake my head to clear that thought. Why does my own brain rail against me?! I’m so deep in my own frantic mental ramblings that I jump in surprise as Michael presses even closer to me, finally speaking.

“That hurt” he murmured, making goosebumps snake along my skin at his breath on my neck, alighting my heart with a strange fear. Ok! I thought, hopefully maybe not a masochist, I jumped to wild conclusions in my panic. No biggie. I quickly started to speak, rambling nonsense in an attempt to say something, stumbling in words to fix it. What to say? Fuck. OK. Move on, what to do? That I know.

“Baby boy I’m so sorry. Stay here, I’ll go get some ice and...”

“Don't.” He interrupts harshly, his voice rasping and going deeper. 

Fuck.   
I’ve never heard him speak harshly before, at least not here, not in this dream. Shit.

“I liked the sting. Why did I like it?” He turned those blue eyes on me, innocent and glistening in the midday sun that pierced through the windows. Well damn, he _is_ a masochist. _Baby boy learned something new_ . Shit shit shit. And he just asked me a nuanced question, a question with no simple answers that could be wildly, dreadfully taken to all kinds of horrific lengths if not explained properly and here I am knowing nothing about bdsm!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh wow not only is this short. I didn't like it much. I might just scrap this chapter and start over.

**Author's Note:**

> Flamers plz just go away. Do what I do and hit 'X' when you don't like the story.
> 
> Critiques are welcome. I've read some godawful fics that ppl have posted with the upmost confidence. I'm not a writer so DO tell me if it's going terribly and why.


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